


those who run with the wolves

by multifandom_fanfic_writer



Series: Fics Hannibal Would Cook For [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And wolves, Apocalypse, Gen, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Apocalypse, Will Finds Out, Will has Wolves, fallout-vibes, grey!Will, half of the reason I wrote this thing is that I want Will to have wolves ok, mid season 2, this is self-indulgence okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28313790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multifandom_fanfic_writer/pseuds/multifandom_fanfic_writer
Summary: When Will gets released from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally insane, he doesn’t return to work with the FBI.He goes home. To his pack. To hunt.A month later, the world ends.
Relationships: Will Graham & Will Graham's Dogs, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Fics Hannibal Would Cook For [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2115867
Comments: 26
Kudos: 228





	those who run with the wolves

**Author's Note:**

> Non-linear story telling because fuck timelines am I right
> 
> This story is loosely inspired by the Fallout-verse, [this other Hannigram post-apocalypse fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204987), and how much I love the idea of Will with wolves.  
> And I also love this poem, so I included it!

_girls who run with the wolves  
aren’t there for boys to love  
_ _and you can run all you want-  
_  
 _but in the light of the moon_  
 _the wolves will always call you back_

_(there are wolves, they would say. and there are stories about wolves and girls.  
girls in red. all alone in the woods, about to get eaten up.)  
_

_wolves and girls.  
_ _both have sharp teeth._

* * *

When Will first moves to Wolf Trap, he feels like an intruder.

He can’t quite place the feeling. Will ignores it, as is his default coping mechanism, and settles in the old house with ease.

By the time he’s finished painting the whole thing, three months have passed. He has fixed at least three holes in the walls, discovered then cleaned up the boarded-up basement, and made a mental map on the surrounding forest area.

During the day, that is.

One early morning, Will sips his lukewarm coffee and looks around. Decides to call this place _home_ for real.

No matter how much he still feels like an intruder.

* * *

Will has never been _normal_ in any sense of the word. His empathy sets him apart, but so does his interest in killers.

In his darkest nights, Will sometimes wonders why exactly he hunts them, immerses himself in their thoughts and minds and lives. Is it to save their victims? To give his life purpose? To make Jack proud?

Sometimes, when he emerges from a crime scene, his hands twitch towards his gun. He tells himself it is the impulse to defend himself, but he knows it is not.

Are his thoughts his own, or that of the killer he’s hunting?

(What will he do when the it is his own?)

When he tells this to Hannibal his tone is a little too airy for the subject.

Hannibal does that thing where he smiles predatorily with his eyes but not with his mouth. Will pulls uneasily at his sleeve.

“It is natural to feel the impulse to kill, Will. Are you troubled by that feeling?”

Will bites his lip. “Yes.”

“Are you? Is that really what troubles you? The impulse, or your lack of guilt?”

Will swallows. “I don’t know if my feelings are my own or not.”

“Don’t you?” Hannibal asks, and leans closer. “Others place these expectations of you. You see them, their wants and needs and throughs, and place these expectations on yourself. You chain yourself down with them, while you are meant to be free.”

Hannibal cocks his head, and his eyes glitter. “Why do you work for Jack, Will? Do you want to save the victims, or even avenge them? Or are you motivated by the chance to empathize with the killers?”

Will fidgets with his glasses, gaze on Hannibal’s chin.

 _No,_ Will thinks, _it’s not that. It’s far more simple._

 _I’m lonely, and I’m looking for someone like me_.

* * *

Thinking back on that day, staring at the white walls of his cell, Will wonders which perception of him is closer to his true self – his own, or Hannibal’s.

* * *

It’s not quite clear how the virus is born.

Usually, there would be a scramble of conspiracy theories and government-mandated research teams and rich businessman eager to answer the big question.

The problem is as follows; the virus spreads too damn _fast_.

They know some things. Someone, somewhere, is tallying numbers, maybe in Russia where the thing first hit, so that the rest of the world could be prepared.

(They are not. Nothing could have prepared them for this.)

In the end, it is simple.

When you catch the virus, there is a fifty percent chance you die within three days.

If you survive, there is another thirty-three percent chance your brain does not.

Not entirely.

They’re calling them _zombies_. Sensationalism until the end. It doesn’t quite fit, but gets the idea across.

Will prefers to simply call them the Feral.

That’s what they are, after all. Feral beings, not an ounce of the person they used to be left with their meat shells. They lash out and consume whatever living thing comes near them; be it animal or human.

There is not much else known about the virus, other than that it must be airborne. By the time such research would have started, the world has already descended into chaos.

Soon, one third of the world’s population will be left.

At least they’ve solved the problem of overpopulation. Climate change too, probably, while they’re at it.

The thought lies wryly in his mind.

Alone in his bed, Will closes his eyes and thinks of Hannibal.

* * *

Adjusting to life in Wolf Trap is easier than Will thought. He takes up teaching at the FBI Academy, with feels more bitter than sweet, but at least he’s making ends meet.

His life is solitary, but satisfactory. It gets better when he finds a stray dog on his way from work one day – and drives by the local animal shelter to get her a companion immediately.

Harley and Ellie make everything better, even if it takes them a little while to warm up to him. He lets them run as free as they’d like.

Doesn’t even buy a leash.

Three weeks after he’s adopted his dogs, he comes home to an empty house. This doesn’t worry him, not at first, but when night starts to fall the unease that has been creeping its way into his bones finally reaches his heart.

Will takes his shotgun and his warmest boots and ventures out into the forest.

It is not his territory.

But he can’t lose the first two living beings that have made him feel loved.

* * *

When Will is imprisoned in the Baltimore State Hospital, he realizes two things.

The first is that Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper - and the Copycat to boot.

The second is that no one will believe him.

(The third is that this makes him feel relieved).

* * *

When he finds Harley and Ellie, they are not alone. Will finally realizes whose territory he is infringing on.

He freezes.

The wolf is tall and imposing. It’s muscles are visible through the brown-red fur, almost crimson under the moonlight. The beast seems more, somehow, not quite monstrous but not entirely mortal either.

It is looking at him. Sniffing the air almost inquisitively.

There are patches of pale fur along its flank, and a old scar dissecting its nose. It’s gaze is piercing, cutting through Will’s armour more skilfully than many a psychiatrist he’s been forced to.

Harley and Ellie are nestled between its paws. Happily trot over to Will when he enters the clearing and stills.

The wolf lets them go, eyes never leaving Will.

Will makes a decision. Lets go of the gun. Averts his eyes, bares his neck, and waits.

When he dares to move again, the wolf is gone.

(Wolves hunt in packs.)

* * *

The walls of his prison seem inescapable until they’re not.

Will squints his eyes against the bright sun as he makes his way out of the back entrance of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Dr. Chilton had seemed surprised by his request, told him Jack was more willing to give him a ride, but Will knew better.

He could do nothing for Jack. Not now.

Alana is more than happy to pick him up instead, driving him to Wolf Trap with a mix of concern and pity in her eyes.

Will is surprised by how little it affects him.

Still, he plays his role. Asks her about the others; about Jack, about Beverly. About Hannibal.

The look in Alana’s eyes when she talks about Hannibal says enough.

(Is the feeling is his chest betrayal or jealousy?)

She drops him off at Wolf Trap, tells him his car will be brought by tomorrow.

“What about your dogs, Will?” Alana asks with a note of sympathy in her voice.

Will wants to laugh, but suppress the urge. If he starts, he won’t be able to stop.

Vaguely, he wonders if anyone had cared to check for his dogs. Had Hannibal stood here as well, months ago, tilting his head curiously as he surveyed the dog-free area?

His pack was well-trained. They wouldn’t have come out, not even for Hannibal.

“Don’t worry about them,” he says with a forced smile. It feels more natural than it used to.

“Okay,” Alana responds, though she sounds unconvinced. “I’ll see you later, then?”

Once upon a time Will might have invited her in.

“See you,” he lies and watches her drive away.

Even now, a part of him wishes he’d called Hannibal instead.

* * *

A curled-up ball of fur next to the local grocery store.

A colleague complaining about his dog, a casual offer to take her off his hands, biting back the feeling of anger.

Buster and Zoe are wonderful additions to his pack.

He feels a pair of watchful eyes circle his cabin more often than not and does not feel threatened.

Wolves are pack animals.

Slowly but surely, the woods begin to feel like his territory as well.

* * *

Now that he knows of the wolf, Will sees it often. His pack runs around often enough in the surrounding woods; sometimes with him, sometimes without.

The wolf is never very far. A flicker of crimson between the brown of the trees; the softest of footsteps following him on his walk.

It must like them.

His dogs are well-behaved, always coming when he calls. He hasn’t trained them so much as reached an understanding with them. They’re far easier to communicate with than people.

One morning, eyes trailing a flash of fur in the corner of his eye, Will thinks about taking it further.

_Jump. Fetch. Bite._

He doesn’t think the wolf will like it.

Later that week, he’s returning from the river, fishing knives strapped to his boots. Buster is nosing around his bucket, smelling the fish; Zoe had stayed home, lazing around the porch.

As Will takes another step, Harley and Ellie simultaneously freeze.

Will turns to look at them, eyebrow raised.

When they start sprinting into the woods with purpose, Will does not hesitate to draw the knife from his boot and follow them.

He is too late.

Will hears the barks of his dogs and the much deeper growl of the wolf before he sees the man. Clad in simple hunting gear, the man has trained his shotgun on the wolf, who is already bleeding from its neck.

 _Enemy_ , is the first thing that flashes through his mind.

Harley and Ellie have inserted themselves between the wolf and his attacker. Their fur is wind-swept, and their eyes are afraid, but their teeth are bared and sharp.

The man turns his head to look at Will, eyes searching, and Will makes sure to angle his body to hide the knife.

“Nice catch,” Will says with a smile that could have been friendly. The man huffs and turns his attention back to his prey.

His finger twitches against the trigger, still pointed at the wolf.

At his dogs.

 _My territory,_ Will thinks, and sinks his knife into the man’s neck with ease.

The man gurgles and spasms with shock, letting the shotgun fall out of his hands to grasp uselessly at the steel protruding from his neck.

Will watches. Wonders if he should mention at his next lecture how easy it is to become a killer.

Stare into the abyss, and all that.

He is pulled from his contemplation by the growl of the wolf.

Will does not hesitate to rush to the wolf’s side, too much blood surrounding the beast, crouching down as his dogs nervously flutter around him.

Something is wrong.

He looks into the wolf’s eyes, thinks _why the hell not,_ and opens his mind.

 _Oh,_ he thinks an eternity later.

 _Oh_.

The wolf gives a last push and closes her eyes for good.

Will is left with two newly-born wolf cubs in his hands and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

* * *

When the virus reaches America, Will gathers his pack close and thinks.

He’s lucky to live the way he does. There is enough game around him to keep him and his pack fed; enough rivers to quench his thirst.

Little chance of stray Feral, this far out.

Still, he knows only the basics of survival. It won’t be enough.

Will is proud. He will go out to meet his fate on his own terms.

The first thing Will does when the panic hits is get into his car and drive to the local library.

It’s abandoned, much to Will’s surprise; unlike the looted and Feral-infected grocery stores he’s passed on the way. He meets one other human there, a young woman with the complete Harry Potter collection in her hands. They meet eyes, both startled, and let each other be.

Will loads his car full with books on anything that might be useful. How-tos on hunting, cooking, braiding, first aid. Gardening; farming; infrastructure.

A selection of fiction books, to pass the time. Yes, also Harry Potter. Advanced medical texts – insofar they existed in this local library – even though he didn’t understand most of them.

Hannibal would.

When he arrives home, he stores the books in his basement and locks his pack outside.

There is an itch at the back of his throat, but it passes within the hour. Will eats his last piece of fruit.

Three days later, he still feels fine.

Figures.

* * *

It’s remarkable how much red wolves can look like normal dogs, especially when they are still cubs.

Still, he researches as much as he can; he wants to give Max and Jack the best home he can.

Will doesn’t tell anyone. He’s not sure there is much to tell, really. His pack, his business.

Besides, he doesn’t want to end up in jail. The patch of dirt that hides the man who tried to kill his dogs in the woods agrees.

His job as a teacher at the FBI academy gets boring, but when he sees a man that he thinks is the Head of the Behavioural Science Unit pass him in the corridors, he averts his eyes.

He’s failed his psychological tests thrice, already. He has no desire to run through that circus again.

Instead, he forces himself to socialize with a few fellow professors.

Dr. Araya tolerates him, at most, but Will gets what he needs. Get a professor talking about her subject, and they will not be able to stop.

Dr. Araya really knows a _lot_ about police dogs.

His packs learn new commands.

Bite. Track. Guard.

Kill.

Max and Jack take to it exceptionally well.

* * *

“Thank you for the ride, Dr. Lecter.”

“Really, it was no trouble at all. After what you had to confront today, Will, I would not stand for letting you get a cab.”

Will ducks his head, feeling his cheeks colouring at the honesty in Hannibal’s voice.

“You, uh, want something to drink?” He probably had some coffee, somewhere, that would completely fail to meet Hannibal’s standards.

“How kind of you, Will,” the man answers and turns off the car.

Will stepped out of the Bentley, giving Hannibal’s chin a grateful smile. The man in question followed behind him, but more slowly.

The sound of padding of paws against the leaves grew louder. Will is so busy worrying himself about his lack of culinary standards that he hears himself give his customary whistle. _It’s safe. Come close._

Will freezes mid-step. When had his subconscious decided Hannibal was safe?

His pack is already turning around the corner of the house, tongues lolling out of their mouths and Winston barking excitedly. They were the picture of doggy playfulness, luckily.

Out of the corner of his eye, Will registered the miniscule shift in Hannibal’s shoulders. If he hadn’t spend so much time in one room with the man, studying his every move, he would not have noticed it at all.

Oh. Right.

“Sit,” Will calls out sharply, and all seven members of his pack skid to a halt and obey. Even Winston. Will clicks his tongue in approval, to which several tongues make a reappearance in happy doggy smiles.

“So there are seven, after all,” Hannibal remarks. The slope of his mouth speaks of impressed amusement and approval.

Will smiles, a warm feeling in his chest, and says nothing.

* * *

The last of his pack, Winston, joins him not too soon before his life changes.

The night after he comes home from the Minnesota Shrike, Will calls his pack inside and lets himself feel the numb until the warmth of their fur heats him back up.

Will blinks, arms full of Winston and Ellie and Harley and Zoe and Buster.

Max is circling the edges of the living room with intent, eyes reflecting the moonlight.

Jack is hidden in the corner, eyes sharp and dangerous.

Will falls asleep, feeling safe.

* * *

Jack – Crawford, that is – is interesting enough, though not very kind. Alana, sweet Alana, is kind, but not very interesting.

Hannibal is _very_ interesting, no matter how Will pretends otherwise. He is also not kind – polite, yes, always. Not kind.

It’s close enough.

There’s something about the doctor that makes Will want to meet his eyes.

From the look in the older man’s eyes, the fascination is very much mutual.

When Hannibal’s car first pulls up, Winston darts from the woods, unable to help himself sniffing the newcomer.

The rest of the pack stays hidden. They’re well trained.

Will snaps his fingers, and Winston comes to heel.

Hannibal smiles at him. “He is very well trained,” the man remarks, and the bland politeness of his tone cannot disguise his interest.

“Yes, he is.”

“Is this your only companion? You mentioned having seven dogs, once.”

“I did,” Will agrees, and does not elaborate.

Alana thinks it’s cute Will’s dogs get so much time to play outside.

Jack never seems interested.

Hannibal regards his pack with fascination, those rare occasions he lays eyes on them. He does not seem to know a lot about dogs, or wolves for that matter, and Will is not sure if he’s relieved.

Later, he still does not have an answer for that question.

He reassures all three of them he has a local dog-sitter that’s always ready to answer his call. He does not say anything about how well his pack can fend for itself.

After the debacle with Gideon, Will debates truly introducing Hannibal to his pack, maybe even teaching him some commands. Then the encephalitis kicks in and it doesn’t seem relevant anymore.

Much later, Will considers it a blessing.

* * *

Two weeks pass after day zero. Will wonders if the virus has hit Jack, or Alana. Hopes it turned Chilton Feral so that Will could shoot him himself without feeling too bad about it.

(He doesn’t think he would feel bad about it either way.)

Will hunts a deer, walks to the river every day, and tries not to think too much about Hannibal.

The two weeks bring two visitors; both are Feral.

One he kills himself. The other gets torn apart by his pack.

It saves bullets, Will supposes.

* * *

After Will returns home from Baltimore, he does not feel like a whole person.

His skin is too lose. His mind is untethered, his anchor dissipated into smoke. His hands twitch, his body uneasy after such a long period of confinement.

His pack greets him with profound happiness. Will lets them bury him and feels tears stream down his face.

Jack Crawford calls him seventeen times before noon, so Will throws his phone in the river.

“Come on, guys,” he says to his pack after the sun has gone down. “Let’s go hunting.”

He leaves his shoes at his home. The stones and leaves scratch his skin, bare soles rapidly cooling against the cold earth. As Will makes his way through the surrounding forest, he lets the pain ground him.

Laying in wait as the boar shuffles closer, Will sees the shadowed stag on the opposite side of the clearing, antlers towering high and feathered fur rustling silently.

He aches to touch it. Instead, he keeps his eyes on it, even as he makes a gesture and his pack moves in for the kill.

When he drags the boar home and skins it, he feels the approving brush of a stone-cold nose on his neck. The antlers throw long shadows over the kitchen counter.

Will closes his eyes and breathes.

The stag is gone when he opens them.

There is a brief surge of hope as the Tattler reports that the Ripper is finally caught, but when Chilton’s name is plastered underneath the headline, his hope withers.

That’s what you get with the culprit leading the case, Will supposes.

The next weeks go much the same. Will hunts with his pack, breathes with his pack, feeds with his pack. He is not quite a person anymore, but he is their leader. The single strand of his identity that has made it through the whole crisis.

The stag is with him more often than not, now. Instead of fearing it when it is there, Will now misses it when it is gone.

His pack warns him whenever they hear a car coming closer. Jack, Alana, Beverly- Will swiftly retreats into the woods to hunt, every time.

Hannibal’s Bentley never pulls up.

Will convinces himself this is a good thing.

(He refuses to be the one to cave first.)

He spends these weeks in deep reflection, stocking up on canned vegetables and beans, hunting for meat or going fishing every other day with his pack.

He had never been a very social person.

Looking back, even considering the encephalitis, Hannibal has still treated him better than Jack. Warned him away from the work, which had indeed harmed him. That Hannibal also harmed Will himself – well. Will has never been particularly concerned with his own well-being.

He’d been much more concerned with being understood. Being _seen_. Just like Hannibal had been, in his own way.

When it’s late at night and Will can’t sleep, he beckons the stag closer and allows himself to miss Hannibal.

* * *

There is not much known, generally, about Will Graham’s life outside of the FBI.

If you asked his students, the most commonly known titbit about Mr. Graham is that he is a dog person.

Very true.

Hannibal had mused upon the same thing, once upon a time, with something akin to approval. At that time, Will had wondered why.

Dogs are hunters, too. Predators that like to kill in the company of others.

* * *

He thinks he could have forgiven Hannibal, if not for Abigail Hobbs.

Somehow, she had become his. _Theirs_ , even, their not-quite daughter, nothing even approaching a healthy family dynamic – not that any of them cared.

But then Hannibal killed her. Threw her away; threw _them_ away.

He can’t be trusted.

Will tries very hard to convince himself of that. His dreams are haunted by flashes of blonde-grey hair and maroon eyes; looming antlers and blood dripping down his face, his throat. It tastes good.

He still doesn’t know what to do.

* * *

Frederick Chilton still comes to Will, even now.

Will does not allow him inside the house. They stand outside and argue – or, rather, Chilton shouts at him in desperation while Will tries to resist temptation.

He’s never been the best at it.

(He’s really being quite rude.)

Will is feeling far less kind, by this point. Less human, his two wolves brushing against his legs.

The man has always irritated him; he has spend too long under Chilton’s _care_ , and now he dares to infringe on _his_ territory.

Demanding help.

“No one believes me,” Chilton says frantically. “You were the only one I could think of who would-”

“You must disappear,” Will cuts through Chilton’s panicked rambling. “He’ll find you, otherwise.”

Chilton nods, eyes frantic. “You’re right. I must.”

“You tell anyone you came here?”

Chilton shakes his head, eyes unfocused. “No one. You are quite the pariah, even now.”

Will grits his teeth, already thinking which lake to drown the car in. “Good.” His voice becomes harsh. His fingers twitch with purpose. “Hunt.”

Chilton frowns, eyes re-focusing on Will. “What do you-”

His pack feasts.

* * *

Will’s dreams are as vivid as ever.

Once, he dreams about his home in Wolf Trap. Waking up to the smell of breakfast, a barely-cooled spot next to him. A love bite in his neck. Descending the stairs with a smile.

Hannibal is in the kitchen, fiddling with a coffee maker that Will does not own. He is wearing an apron over his pyjama’s. Will presses a kiss to his neck and takes a seat at the table, closing his eyes to better breathe in the smell of omelette and meat.

When he opens his eyes, he is alone is his bed. It is the middle of the night.

For a few fevered moments, caught between dreams and waking, he wonders why Hannibal isn’t sleeping next to him.

* * *

Three weeks after day zero, Will gets his first human visitors.

A man and a woman, armed with guns, untrained and desperate.

Will snaps his fingers. His pack fans out.

He steps outside, hand on the knife on his belt, eyes the newcomers warily.

“How may I help you?”

The man barks a laugh. “Well, at least you’re fuckin’ sane.”

Will gives him a wry smile. Buster slinks around his legs, teeth bared and eyes on the intruders.

Around them, waving through the trees, his pack watches. Waits.

The woman shrugs with a smile. Neither of them lower their guns.

“You on your own here, or affiliated?”

Will cocks his head. “Affiliated?”

The woman gestures to her shoulder, and it is only now Will sees some crude rendition of a snake has been sown into the fabric of her T-shirt.

“We’re with the Vipers, from up by Reston,” she adds.

Will raises an eyebrow.

“Who else is there?” he asks curiously. That was fast.

The woman relaxes her stance, though the man does not. “DC is still unclaimed, likely to stay that way for now. There’s us, up in Reston, and I’ve heard some kind of cult sprung up near Ellicott. Baltimore has been taken by the Ripper and his elk, and Rockville has fallen to ruins.”

“Sash,” the man hisses in reprimand. Sasha can’t help herself. Will reminds her of her younger brother, dead in a car accident before the virus hit. Sasha doesn’t know if she’s relieved about it.

Pulling himself out of the woman’s mind, Will frowns.

“The Chesapeake Ripper?” he asks.

“That’s wha’ I’ve heard,” the woman replies, shrugging. “I mean, makes sense, don’t it, in this new world. The weak are meat, the strong eat.”

Something in her tone tells Will she’s done being friendly. The man, next to her, seems to agree.

Around them, the forest has fallen silent.

“So what now?” Will asks.

The man smiles. It is not a nice smile.

Will looks into his eyes and knows that this man has welcomed the apocalypse. He’d felt so powerless in his old job, a wife he didn’t quite love and a boss he hated. Now, he is powerful, as the corpse of his former boss can attest. Who is dead last now, _bitch_.

“Now,” the man says, “you oughta give us all your stuff, and we won’t kill you.”

“Or,” the woman cuts in, “you could join the Vipers. If our leader approves, I mean. She has standards, but I think you’ll make the cut.”

Will huffs and looks up to the sky for just a moment. Thinks back to the last moment he felt whole, staring at the back of Hannibal Lecter as he left him to his prison cell.

As if he has a choice.

“I apologize,” he begins, and the woman grips her gun tightly. “But I’ve already been claimed by someone else.”

Will’s eyes find those of the man, and his gaze is hard. He bares his teeth, and he feels his pack start to react.

“ _Kill_.” he commands and throws himself forward.

Two shots resonate through the air, both wide. Will’s ears are ringing.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps as his pack advances. Neither do, Will imagines, the pair of Vipers.

They do not stand a chance.

As Max jumps high and tears into the man’s throat, Buster jumps low and claws at the man’s hand. He drops the gun, and Will smiles. _Good boy_.

On the other side, the woman has turned to run, but the weight of an almost fully-grown wolf on her back stops her in her tracks. Her hands scramble for the gun, but Will is faster, and wrenches it from her hand easily.

Zoe has her teeth deep into the woman’s leg. She’s the smallest and the single most vicious out of his entire pack.

He pets Zoe’s head even as he reaches for his hunting knife, deciding to end Sasha’s suffering quickly.

The man, on the other hand, was quite rude.

As he slowly suffocates on his own blood, Will does nothing but watch.

“I wonder what design Hannibal would have made out of you,” he wonders aloud, but the man has already lost consciousness.

After it’s done, all he feels is a grim sort of satisfaction.

“Good job,” he tells his pack, and they accept his pats easily, even his wolves. The blood on their teeth suits them.

It’s kind of beautiful.

Then he is left with two corpses and eight bellies to fill.

 _Why not_ , he thinks, and hauls the bodies inside.

It’s the goddamn apocalypse, and he’s apparently eaten it often enough, so it can’t be that dangerous.

Sometimes, Will wonders how much Hannibal changed him.

How much darkness was in him from the start.

* * *

Just after Will has discovers he is immune to the virus, a thought occurs to him.

_What if Hannibal is not?_

He must be. The Chesapeake Ripper, the Copycat, and who knows what other titles the killer had gathered – of all people, Hannibal surely must be safe.

If Hannibal had died already, then what was the use for Will to keep living?

* * *

The self-proclaimed Vipers have a car, still working. He also has his own.

The next day, Will gets Max and Jack, a small amount of rations, and does not drive to Baltimore.

Instead, he drives to the local church, estimating it his best bet.

There are only six people inside, and they greet him warily. They have no guns, only knives, and eye him and his wolves with fear.

He trades the few rations he’s brought with him for information and leaves feeling a little bit better.

 _The Rippers, huh_ , he thinks as he shakes his head. How gauche.

Hannibal must hate it.

The local priest had warned him far away from Baltimore, telling him the Chesapeake Ripper had the area in an iron first.

“The Devil reigns in that city, Mr. Graham,” the priest had warned him after Will had asked one question too many. “Save your soul and do not enter His domain.”

Will smiled at him and didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d lost his soul thrice over already.

He drives back to Wolf Trap and settles in for the long haul.

* * *

Will is an excellent fisherman.

Four weeks after the end of the world – and one more dead Feral later – three cars pull up his driveway.

Front and centre is a familiar Bentley.

Will does not let the satisfied grin show on his face. He may have won this battle, but the war is far from over.

Instead, Will whistles sharply, and his pack closes in around him as he stands in front of his house, bullet-proof vest looted from one of the Vipers tied snugly around him, gun held loosely in one hand.

(His best weapons are circling around his feet, anyway.)

From the two unremarkable cars exit only strangers, though their eyes are curious, not hostile.

The door to the Bentley opens and Hannibal steps forward.

Will’s breath catches in his throat.

Hannibal is somehow still in a fucking three-piece suit. At first sight, he does not look that different.

But only at first sight.

The posh grace and demure politeness Hannibal has always held himself with has vanished. It is replaced by something even more graceful, lithe, _lethal_. Hannibal’s eyes are almost maroon in the afternoon sun, and there is a scratch on his face, breaking the otherwise perfect facade.

Before, his strength was hidden. Now he wears it like a badge.

 _Predator_ , Will’s hindbrain practically screams at him, and he feels his pack tense up.

Will bares his teeth. His pack mimics him.

“Will,” Hannibal breathes, and somehow it sends a pang of longing through his soul.

“Dr. Lecter,” he echoes blankly, doing his best to keep his face as neutral as Hannibal’s. “I expected you to hold out for longer.”

Hannibal cocks his head. His eyes are piercing. “No longer on first-name basis, my dear Will?”

“It’s difficult to maintain a friendship,” Will replies, eyes narrowing, “when it’s drowning under the weight of its secrets. When one party holds all the cards.”

“That is not the case, now.”

Will releases a breath through his nose. “So you say.”

“I have never lied to you, Will,” Hannibal responds. Will barks out a laugh.

“Not directly,” the doctor admits, “and not without reason.”

“Please,” Will spats, and he cannot help himself. He drops the gun and draws his fishing knife, metal glinting in the sunlight.

The four strangers around him tense. Raise their guns.

But Hannibal gestures sharply, not even looking at them. Without question, they stand down. Will does not need to look at them to see the flash of fear in their eyes.

He takes a step forward.

“It’s not just being the Chesapeake Ripper. Or the Copycat,” another step, “for that matter. It’s not even the cannibalism, in the end,” Will admits out loud for the first time, and with him, his pack advances slowly.

Hannibal does not bat an eye as Buster and Harley circle closer around him, Max and Jack two steps behind. His eyes are on Will, and on Will only.

“Especially now,” Will says bitterly, guesting broadly, “those things hardly even matter anymore. Even the fact that you lied to me about my own mental health, _framed me_ – In time, I could have dealt with even that.”

From behind the Bentley, the stag watches him steadily.

“Oh Will,” Hannibal answers lowly, and his eyes do not leave Will’s face. There’s something in that, that even now, Hannibal is unable to give him anything but his full attention.

“You value yourself so little. I should not have taken that risk with your beautiful mind – taking it so far is one of the few things I honestly regret-”

“I don’t _care_ , Hannibal!” Will shouts in response, temper flaring, and snaps his fingers twice.

His pack reacts before anyone else can, even Hannibal himself. They literally jump into action – the two wolves wrestle the Chesapeake Ripper to the ground even as the rest of his pack spreads out threateningly to the other humans.

Will is not far behind Max and Jack. He’s not sure if Hannibal lets him, or if the doctor is genuinely surprised – the end result is the same.

It’s almost to easy to push the knife into Hannibal’s neck.

“Hold,” he growls to the wolves and they freeze.

Hannibal’s mouth has fallen open. Something like admiration is shining in his eyes.

The usual dark waters of the doctor’s mind are rippling and Will can feel the edges of _reliefarousalhappinesswariness_ creep up on him.

He leans forward until his nose almost touches Hannibal’s.

“It was obvious what your plans were for me, in hindsight. Not just making me a killer – making me an _equal_. Someone who could see you.”

“You did see me, Will,” Hannibal responds, and the way his mouth curls around Will’s name made it feel strangely intimate. “You are the only one who ever could. And you turned out to be so much more than I dared to dream.” Even now, pushed to the ground and literally a hair’s breath away from the jaws of death, Hannibal sounds strangely breathless.

“In the end,” Will continues, “it’s not about what you did to me, or to those strangers.”

His eyes flash. The knife presses closer. “ _You killed Abigail._ She was mine – she was ours. _Our_ responsibility – and you threw it away.”

Blood wells up underneath the steel.

“The ultimate declaration. A betrayal of your own pack.” Will snarls.

“Did I?”

Will bares his teeth.

“What.”

Hannibal smiles.

Raises his voice.

“Abigail, dear, you can come out now.” 

Will’s head shoots up, though his hands do not waver. The car door opens, and a ghost steps out.

“Abigail,” Will breathes, exhale visible in the cold air.

The girl standing in front of him, sans one ear, is clad in warm furs. He can see at least three visible knives on her. Her face is pale, cheeks fallen in, and she does not look well-rested. She looks very much _alive_ , though, bright eyes and a tentative smile on her face.

“Is this real?” Will cannot help but whisper to himself. The knife to Hannibal’s throat does not start shaking, but it is a near thing.

Abigail’s voice is shaking, but absolute. _Rehearsed,_ something inside of Will whispers. “We faked my death. I was the bait.”

Will barks out a harsh laugh, wild curls falling in front of his face. He bows his head as his body starts to tremble, and once more catches sight of the predator still caught under his knives and wolves.

Hannibal has been watching Will patiently, not making any move to escape or struggle. Maybe he could’ve gotten away. Maybe Max and Jack would have torn out his throat first.

“ _Why_ ,” Will brings his face closer to Hannibal, readjusts the knife. “You had no reason to.”

Something flashes in Hannibal’s eyes. “But I did.”

Will’s pupils dilate. “Me. It was for me. Because I cared about her, because a part of me wanted to keep her close. And you, you wanted to keep _me_ close.”

Hannibal does not answer, watching the gears turn with fascination.

“Would you have killed her, in the end?” He narrows his eyes. “Will you, now?”

“Will, I would-“

Will presses the knife closer and growls, a low sound in the back of his throat. His wolves respond to his visible aggression. Max echoes the growl, the wolf far more intimidating, the sound echoing around the clearing. Jack digs his teeth deeper, and Will sees with satisfaction how Hannibal cannot supress a flinch of pain.

“Do. Not. Lie. To. Me.” Bringing their faces closer with each sharply punctuated word, until their noses are practically touching.

Like this, the crimson flecks in Hannibal’s eyes are more evident than ever.

“Maybe,” the serial killer admits, pupils dilating. “Depending on the circumstances. _Your_ circumstances. Now? No, likely not. I do not see the purpose now.”

The words are like hooks, sinking themselves into Will’s mind. The casual disregard regarding a life of their could-be daughter, the underlying possessiveness in Hannibal’s eyes.

Will flinches back, taking the knife from Hannibal’s throat and scrambling backwards until he is standing on shaking legs.

His wolves do not move.

Will closes his eyes, running his hand through his hair. Closes his eyes.

If he listens closely, he hears the footsteps of his stag coming out of his house.

When he opens them, his eyes fall on Hannibal’s four minions, regarding him with fear now, instead of wariness. A hint of confusion. One weird hermit backwater nobody holding a knife to their leader’s throat – and letting go?

“This world is different now, Will. It requires different things. Of all of us.”

Will turns his gaze back to the prone figure of the man who haunts his days and nights. The shadow of the stag falls on all of them.

“Different masks?”

“Wouldn’t you say I have dropped mine, dear Will? Let the monster out, so to say?”

Hannibal’s eyes burn into his soul.

Will shakes his head before Hannibal is even done talking. “No, no, that’s bullshit and you know it. First of all, you’re nothing quite as simple as a monster. You are…” A deep breath. “You have always been both the mask and the wearer.”

He trails off. Stares into Hannibal’s eyes, feels something stirring in his gut. Swallows.

“The art critic and dinner party host are, were, just as much a part of you as the Chesapeake Ripper. Which is not the first time your hobbies have gained you a reputation,” Will suddenly realizes as Hannibal’s mouth twitches ever so slightly.

“You are dangerous,” Will continues, stepping closer until his feet touch Hannibal’s prone ones, and he has to bow his head to look Hannibal in the eye. A hero, with the villain at his feet? Mentally, Will snorts. A deity, passing judgement? Hannibal certainly looks at him with enough reverence.

A lover scorned, their other half begging for forgiveness?

“You have the ability to adapt to any situation. To improvise – to blend in. Adjust the setting of your person suit until, once again, you are at the top of the food chain, and no one even remembers a time when you weren’t.”

Hannibal breathes out slowly, eyes fluttering. Savouring.

“Like this, Will,” he whispers, “you are breath taking. Unique. _Free_. The fishermen, luring me in. I had no chance but to bend to your will. And the trap was sprung,” inclining his head to the wolves still holding him down.

“You are the one who has let go of your masks. The expectations of society, the morality governing your mind, it matters not in this new world. And so has it set you free, to be who you are meant to be.”

Will laughs. “What? Your pet?”

Hannibal bites his lip, shakes his head. “No. Powerful.”

Will’s breath catches. His eyes bore into Hannibal’s and for a moment it feels like they are the only people in existence. The only two alive, that have ever lived, that will ever live.

It doesn’t feel so different from a normal day.

Will closes his eyes. “Release. Heel.” he snaps in quick succession.

Low growls and rumbles of dissatisfaction, followed by the sound of dozens of paws on leaves. Then warmth at his legs and back.

Will breathes in.

Breathes out. Opens his eyes.

Hannibal is in front of him, arms of his suit torn, a look of elation on his face.

The stag is behind him, resting its head on Hannibal’s form, then bending downwards, down, down, until it’s merged with Hannibal himself.

Hannibal’s skin turns black, horns protruding from his head. His eyes are still the same, maroon in the light of the sun. His mouth is smiling.

He has never looked more beautiful.

Will blinks, and the world returns to normal.

Hannibal takes another step closer, within reach of both Will and his pack.

“You have always been a survivor, Will.” It sounds like a prayer. “Even now, in this new world, you thrive. I would not have expected anything less.”

Will barks out a laugh, but it catches in his throat and comes out strangled. “You must be so very exited at all this,” gesturing at the world around them. “Now, you are not a monster, but a king. A god among men. Something you always knew, but now the world must admit it as well.”

Will cocks his head. “What was that saying again? Kill one man, a hundred, thousands?”

“If I am to be a king,” Hannibal interrupts him, and his tone is intimate. He holds one hand out, long and slender, and Will surprises himself with the urge to immediately take it. “I would ask you to be my queen.”

Will sputters.

“That is to say,” Hannibal corrects himself, and a downwards twitch of his lips betrays his awkwardness, “I would ask you to share my throne. Rule with me. As-“

“Equals.”

Hannibal inclines his head. “Equals.”

A moment of silence.

“I have a castle.”

Will sighs. “Of course you do.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch.

“Less than a month after day zero, and already lord and master of the land. Feared and respected above all, are you not? How could you not be. The Chesapeake Ripper, turned from a nightmare to a protector. If you had to shack up with on a monster, they must all think, why not choose the most dangerous one around?”

Now, Hannibal is the one that bares his teeth, something that could have been a smile.

“I keep them safe. I protect what’s mine. I could keep you safe, as well.”

Will cocks his head. Considers.

“You must be bored already.”

Hannibal’s pupils dilate. He sounds painfully honest.

“With you at my side, Will? Never.”

Will cannot help but smile ever so slightly, turning his face up to the sky.

A hand claps into his own. The warmth of a body nearing, further and further, until they could almost be embracing.

The sun is warm upon his face.

“Come with me.” Hannibal whispers in his ear.

Not a cloud in sight.

“Where else would I go?”

Will’s closes his eyes and lets himself fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Might write another chapter about their life at the castle if people would like that, might not because I have like 3 WIPs yknow oops?


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